


Running Into You

by QuizzicalQuinnia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Smut Roster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 19:54:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7477722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuizzicalQuinnia/pseuds/QuizzicalQuinnia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fender bender and a mistaken assumption lead to one big climactic scene. </p><p>This is smut with a little bit of plot. Not gonna lie. </p><p>For JBO Smut Roster, Summer of '16!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running Into You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ikkiM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikkiM/gifts).



> As always, thanks to ikkiM for the much-needed beta!
> 
> And much love to the wonderful faces of JaimeBrienneOnline, wherein we can all resort to our most goofy fangirl selves :-)
> 
> This is based on two prompts from the JBO prompt thread.  
> Prompt #1 - Sophie - I would like to add Brienne politely assuming Jaime's gay (but not in the closet, just currently single) for *insert reasons of author's choice*, because it would make for a great story and a prompt  
> Prompt #2 - Mikki - I also am prompting the fender bender trope. Jaime's big SUV rear-ends Brienne's inexpensive hybrid. Shouting on the street ensues.

* * *

“It’s clearly your fault!”

“ _I_ wasn’t the one staring into their rear-view mirror!”

“ _You_ were following me!”

“Obviously! I told you I would, you pig-headed wench!”

“And I told _you_ I was fine, and I’m telling you now for the thousandth time that my name is not _wench_ , like some...some _pub lady_!”

“How am I supposed to know you’re fine if you won’t even show me your cheek? Answer me that!” Jaime Lannister extended his hand toward her face.

He had done the same at the office out in the hall, after immediately spotting the burgeoning purple bruise on her face (he’d furrowed his brow and had tried to stop her from running off, but she’d been just a little bit too fast). And just as _she_ had done then, Brienne Tarth once more slapped his hand away, with _her_ hand, the one that was not plastered against her left cheek to hide the injury. She could run off, now, too. She _should_. She was so furious she was almost shaking. She could feel the blood rush under her skin, staining it that blotchy, squished tomato red.

 _He_ just stood there, seeming to loom over her even though he was slightly shorter. It was his attitude that made her feel overpowered. She hated that almost as much as her blush, as much as his stupid beautiful face, as much as the fact that his car had rear-ended hers because she’d been looking at that face through her mirror and wondering why he would follow her home at all.

She let out something close to a primal growl and dug the nails of her free hand into her palm.

He wore a grimace that matched her mood. In an instant, it morphed into the opposite, a sly little smirk twisting the corner of his lips until it bloomed into a full grin. His eyes lit up as he laughed at her. “You look like a lobster, and you sound like an angry lion. No, not a lion. A lion cub. It’s adorable.”

“I am not adorable!” She yelled, wanting to kick him straight in the shin. Or higher.

He pointed his judgy finger at her face. “I will tell you when you are adorable and when you are not!”

She stuck her own long finger at _his_ face, preparing to chastise mightily. She forgot that it left her cheek uncovered.

He was quick, she had to give him that. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and moved her entire arm out of the way while he stepped closer. Too close. Far too close, as he reached his free hand up to brush gentle fingertips over the outline of her injury. She knew it was ugly, all purple and blue with bits of scab at this point. It wasn’t as bad as it looked. It barely even hurt after she’d iced it during lunch, hiding in the copy room to avoid Jaime.

There was no avoiding him now. His breath floated over her face in short bursts, his nostrils flaring as he examined her cheek in silence.

“There will be a little scar,” he said, so neutrally that anyone who knew him less would think he looked at a particularly mediocre deli sandwich rather than an ugly woman’s face.

But Brienne knew him. When he shouted or raged or used those obnoxious tones of faux-seduction, he was just fine. Normal. When he was very, very quiet, he was upset. When his usually pointed gaze seemed withdrawn, his eyes clouded and thoughts too far away to read, and his voice so even he could be reading the dictionary out of boredom, _that_ was when she knew he was plotting. He never plotted just for fun. He was angry. Furious even.

Like _she_ was about the stupid fender-bender, only not at all the same. She was furious at herself for being once again so distracted by Jaime just _being_ Jaime that she had paid no attention to the quiet neighborhood road on her usual route home. She had caught only a glimpse of the red stop sign before slamming on the breaks.

Cue the fender bender between his enormous fuel-guzzler sports vehicle and her square and too-small hybrid that had a rear bumper seemingly made of tin. Cue Jaime throwing his hands up at the roof of his car, her flinging her door open and unfolding herself awkwardly while remembering to cover her face so he wouldn’t fixate on her cheek, him striding over to her with clenched fists and a fierce glare, her desperately trying to deflect from her incomprehensible reactions to the day by blaming him...

Jaime sucked in a deep breath and stared straight at her. “I’m going to end him.”

She thought she should tell him not to be absurd, that the _incident_ had been an _accident_ even though she doubted it was. But she laughed. She couldn’t help it. It was hilarious.

“Jai…” she snorted, “Jaime, _seriously_?”

His brow furrowed. “Yes, I am very serious.”

She laughed harder, and his fingers dropped from her face. “You sound like a Braavosi mobster!” She lowered her register and mimicked him, “I will _end_ him.”

He took a half step back and crossed his arms over his chest like a defensive little boy. “I will! He deserves to be...ended.”

She crossed her arms. “Ended _how_ , Jaime? You going to kill him?”

He had the sense to glance at the pavement. “Of course not. I mean...something.” He squared his shoulders and, with an aristocratic tilt of his head, answered, “I _am_ a Lannister.”

“Yes, I know. Everyone knows. Literally everyone.”

“Well then. I’ll do something.” He stepped closer again. “He’s not going to work with us ever again. I will not spend one more day in the same building as fucking Ronnet Connington.”

He wasn’t joking, she could tell, and she knew that he would indeed do _something_. He _was_ a Lannister. She hated that. Mostly. Sometimes. “It was an accident,” she said, trying to convince herself for the tenth time, but it didn’t work on her _or_ him. Not one bit.

“Everyone knows it wasn’t.” His eyes flickered to her bruise.

“I walked into a door,” she pushed, wanting this to be done, wanting to go home by herself and be upset by herself, and wanting as always to get away from Jaime except she never really wanted to be away from Jaime. That was the problem.

“No one walks into a door!” he scoffed. “Not like that! You walked into it because he pushed it out at you. That fucking dusty cunt. I’m going to end him.”

He was really, honestly upset. Not the quiet upset, but some new kind of upset. It was hard to see, harder to understand except she was his friend and she knew he shockingly didn’t have many. Well, two. Her and his brother.

She uncrossed her arms and reached up to place her palm on his shoulder. Friendly. Reassuring. “I’m fine, really.”

He continued to stare, except he was almost holding it too long, trying not to look somewhere other than her eyes. Then his gaze moved to her arm near his face because of the palm on the shoulder that she hadn’t removed. Then back to her eyes, snapping quickly as he bit his lip in his slow, particular way. That was hard to look at, too.

His eyes looked...soft. Strange. “You’re not fine,” he said in a half-whisper, and she wanted to cry about effing dusty...parts....Ronnet Connington for trying to bet on her supposed desperation for companionship and deciding that he hated her for refusing to bite.

She swallowed thickly, and waited a moment. Then, “I will _be_ fine. I promise.” Her wounded emotions would fade away like the bruise on her wounded cheek until they would be hazy memories of unpleasant things.

Jaime smiled, slowly and...chillingly? “ _He_ will not be fine, Brienne.”

He uncrossed his own arms and raised one so he could wrap his hand around her forearm.

She hated it when he touched her. Wherever his skin came in contact with hers, her blood would pool and form a disgusting flush as if it tried to outline him, to announce to the world that she, Brienne Tarth the Ugly Girl From Tarth who went to Tarth High Until Papa Hired Tutors Because Teenagers Are Awful, was being _touched_ by Jaime Lannister of _the_ Lannisters from Lannisport who was Prom King and Captain of Lacrosse and too Beautiful to Exist on the Same Planet.

She wanted to vomit. It wasn’t fair that he was so affectionate! She wanted him just to leave her alone (she didn’t), and she wished she’d never met him (she didn’t wish that), and she hated that she had to work with him every day, and that he had become her best and only true friend, and that she was in love with him (she did not hate any of those things except the last which she _really_ hated).

Most of all, she hated that he was gay. It was even more unfair for her, because he didn’t realize how his actions made other people react to her. They were always together. They were friends. They were close.

Of course, no one knew he was gay. That was fine. Not her business. She didn’t care, or _wouldn’t_ if she hadn’t somehow, entirely without her own permission, decided that for the second time in her life (the second time!) she’d fall in love with a gay man.

Or rather, the second time she had developed “feelings” (certainly in quotation marks accompanied by those little finger bobs of derision). Renly had been...Renly had been because of Tarth High. It had been terrible. Honestly. Just terrible. And he’d visited there for a week because his brother was some big shot or something, and he had _not_ been evil to her. He had been nice, and she had thought he was beautiful, and she had fancied herself in love with him, fruitlessly of course, for several long terrible years.

Then, she had grown up, her spine had become encased in steel, and she had decided that Renly was a figment who had kindly helped her through some _terrible_. She did not require him any longer. She had also discovered quite by accident that Renly was openly gay. She had tried not to dwell on how stupid she felt about that.

Then she had met Jaime. It had been at a very hostile conference. Well, it had been filled with hostile people who hated each other. She didn’t hate anyone. She was supposed to meet with a supplier and debrief him as he prepared to move into the company as a permanent liaison. The man had been Jaime. She had experienced quite a few interesting realizations.

First, Renly had not been all that beautiful. Rather, Jaime Lannister was _so_ beautiful that no other previously perceived beautiful man deserved the compliment. She had been prepared to hate Jaime Lannister because surely one so beautiful must be horrible inside.

Maybe he had been, pretended to be, she now knew, but it had taken a relatively short time for her to see that Jaime Lannister was kind. It was an arrogant sort of kindness he strove very hard to mask at all times. But she saw. He was kind to his dwarf brother whom he loved quite a lot. He was kind to that poor girl who brought in the lunch sandwiches. She had missing teeth from being abused, and she would never open her mouth.

Then, one day, that poor girl came in, smiling ear to ear and showing off shiny new teeth. A dentist had found her, out of the blue, and had offered to fix her teeth for free since he wanted to test a new method.

Sure. That sort of thing happened all the time. Brienne had looked at Jaime, and Jaime had been absolutely riveted by a spreadsheet on his desk, a little non-sly smile curling his lips.

There were other things, too, and they had become too many to name. He was a good person hiding behind a beautiful face, sarcasm, and Lannister arrogance. She fell a little more under his spell every day.

And he never, ever, not once talked about a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Or anyone. But the women...they would throw themselves at him. Sometimes literally like the time at the cinema when the popcorn girl had pretended to trip just so Jaime would have to catch her. It had been embarrassing, for her and probably the popcorn girl. Not for Jaime. He'd barely noticed, never reacted. If the desperation to get his attention grew too blatant to ignore, he would nicely but strongly request space. He couldn’t be less interested.

It was obvious to her that he was gay. Of course he was gay. She only had “feelings” for gay men with pretty faces. That was suitable, she thought. She was ugly...she could hear her father’s stern voice in her head (not ugly, “unique” in quotation marks with finger bobs). She was cursed to be attracted to men entirely out of reach, but she was secretly aware that she crafted lovely excuses for it. There was no curse. There was just no chance of encountering a man who could match her (intellectually, physically, same taste in video streaming), who would _also_ be attracted to her as she could be attracted to him.

It would be much easier, she thought, if _she_ were the gay one. But she wasn’t. She had thought about it. She had tried to make herself think about women. She’d gone cold and mostly bored. While she had always thought it would be nice to have a more feminine body, a more pleasing body, she did not want to be _with_ that kind of body.

She’d seen Jaime naked one time at a spa. He’d seen her, too. He’d dared her to come with him. She hadn’t known it was a naked spa, but he’d said it would be dishonorable to back out once she’d promised. At least he’d kept himself hidden beneath the water or a towel slung way too long for decency. She had not. That had been an accident. He’d said something provoking as usual, and she’d forgotten she was naked. Ridiculous, to forget you’re _naked_ , but that was just _how_ provoking he had been.

She had wanted to reach across the steaming water and slap him. The skin of her palm making contact with his smooth cheek. Her fingers trailing water drops down the side of his neck…she was hopelessly straight as the straightest arrow. Doomed to be in love with beautiful gay men. Doomed!

“What are you thinking about?” Jaime asked, breaking her from her strange musings. “Where did you go?”

“The bath,” she muttered, before she could stop herself. She clamped her lips tightly together and stared in horror as her bruise began to throb from all the new, mortifying blood flooding her face. She didn’t even know why she said that! She’d been thinking of trying to be gay, not the _bath_! (That was a lie.)

He swallowed. She watched his throat.

“The...bath? Really?” His lids lowered a fraction in _that_ way, when he was feeling less ragey and resorted to faux-seduction. “I think about the bath all the time. Mostly at night. It’s so lonely at night. Brienne…”

He purred her name like it was made of pheromones. She shivered. She always did when he said her name, particularly like _that_ , even though he was just being his usual jesting self. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t even know he was doing it, because she knew he wouldn’t mislead her on purpose. He was just a sexual man. Another reason she knew he was gay and was likely hiding it, maybe even fighting it, because he had to sleep with _someone_. And he was always home or at the office, or with her. She knew he was home because he would text her or call her, all the time. She couldn’t think of the last night when they hadn’t talked…

“You’ve gone somewhere again.” He grinned at her.

She focused on his mouth. His teeth were very white. That was natural, because she’d once accused him of vanity for bleaching his teeth, and he’d proven her wrong by buying bleaching trays and wearing them every afternoon right across from her at their desks, and at the end of a whole week, his teeth looked exactly the same.

Damn him.

“Still thinking of the bath?” he murmured. “I am.”

That was it. She couldn’t take it anymore, not that day. She didn’t know her voice was sad until the words were out. “I’m tired, Jaime. I just want to go home.”

His brow furrowed, his eyes darkened. “I don’t want you to drive.”

She was getting desperate. “I can drive fine. See you tomorrow.” She let her arm drop, suddenly realizing that she’d been clutching his shoulder the entire time.

She turned, not able to look at his too pretty face more. She felt his fingers flex around her arm, press harder, grip outright. He yanked her back toward him. She spun in a half-circle and slammed into him, but he was strong and barely moved, absorbing her own not insignificant strength with ease.

She could feel his lungs expand against her chest. He stared at her. It was the kind of stare he stared when they would eat lunch together, or watch movies. Just doing normal, relaxing things. He would faze out, all the time really, and end up staring at her for no good reason. This stare was like that but worse...or stronger? She didn’t know. It made her feel strange.

She blinked rapidly, breathed him in deeply as her meager breasts brushed against him. She vaguely thought she should step back. She didn’t. He licked his lip. He bit it. Her gut clenched as if it had been punched, but in a very pleasant sort of way. Punched by a cake? A puppy?

He stared, at her eyes, then her mouth, and back again. She followed his path. Up, down, flickering. He lowered his lids entirely and squeezed his eyes shut with force, grimacing and drawing his lips into a straight line until they went almost white.

His eyes popped open. Their vivid color was shocking, which seemed stupid as she’d just seen it, but still...it was so intense. He swallowed. The grip on her arm tightened until it was nearly painful. He let out a breath that carried a strange little sound within it, choked and garbled.

He kissed her. That was strange. He was gay.

He pressed his lips right against hers, and his eyes were closed. She didn’t know exactly what was happening. Or rather, she did, but not _why_. Because he was gay.

But he was kissing her? Was he drunk? She would have smelled it on his breath, surely.

She was having some difficulties. In thinking. Wondering. His lips felt like two velvet-covered swords working together to conquer the foreign land of her mouth, only that made no sense as swords were not flexible, not at all. She was dizzy. She wanted to vomit. She was feeling as if her bones might give up on her and flee.

Gods, she was going to kiss him back! Oh dear...that would be unfortunate. This was a fluke. This was madness. She was ugly. He was _gay_.

She couldn’t help herself. Her unwieldy lips began to move. He stepped back, all at once, without warning, letting his hand wrench itself from her arm and the other from her neck where she had not even known that hand had gone, and he stepped away and raked fingers through thick hair and stared at the pavement.

He kicked a pebble. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. He breathed hard and angry, restless. Caged. “Sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I...I didn’t mean to--”

“I know,” she said quickly, truly desperate now to run away. She didn’t even need to deal with her car. She’d just leave it there in the middle of the road and run off in any direction, to any destination. Preferably the bottom of the sea.

Except she couldn’t just leave him there to be horribly embarrassed about his strange behavior. He was her dearest friend. It wasn’t his fault that she was in love with him.

“I know,” she rushed on, “it’s fine. I know you didn’t mean it. I know you’re gay.”

Her eyes widened. She covered her mouth with one extremely beet-red hand. She’d just blurted it out, not even knowing how her words were strung together. Stupid!

He looked up, or snapped up. Tall and made of steel. Staring with huge eyes, bigger than she’d ever seen him wear. Or have? How was that to be explained? He was stunned. So was she.

He opened and closed his mouth four times, almost stuttering out, “What?”

“Oh gods, I’m so sorry, Jaime! I...I didn’t mean...I’m horrible and stupid...I..I will never ever tell anyone, I swear on my life!”

She stood there, more mortified than she’d ever been for any reason. He stared and stared. She could tell he was working through things in his mind. He cocked his head, one way, then back, then the other, examining and thinking. He was off in his thoughts for a while. Her feet felt too heavy to allow her to run at full speed up the road and into the far north. And she couldn’t leave him alone after her terrible blunder.

His brow furrowed. His mouth opened, then he closed it. He stared. “You think I’m gay?” he mumbled in absolute shock.

He’d never meant her to know. She felt awful. “I swear I’ll never tell.”

He stared. His face cleared, his lips regaining color and pressing together in a pleasing, smirking way. His eyes returned to normal, if not darkened with amusement. His brow unfurrowed. He laughed.

He laughed _hard_. He choked his laughter, slapping his thighs with his palms and holding his gut, rubbing water from the corners of his eyes. It went on for quite some time.

She stood there, paralyzed by extreme confusion.

Finally, he stood straight, cleared his eyes, slowed his chuckling. “You think I’m gay!” he snorted out gleefully.

“Well...yes,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. _Think_? What was there to _think_ about?

He sighed. “Brienne, what am I going to do with you?”

She tried to speak, just shook her head. Shrugged.

He looked at her. Not stared, but _looked._ “All this time, you’ve really thought I was gay?”

She nodded, hesitant. Scared.

“I’ve told you all of my secrets, Brienne. You know that.” Now _he_ sounded confused.

She nodded.

“Why wouldn’t I have told you _that_?”

She shrugged.

He took a step closer, raking his eyes over her, head to toe and back again, strangely. “Why have you thought that?”

 _Thought_? What was going on with this gay beautiful man?

“I...” her voice sounded like gravel. She cleared her throat. “I...you never have women...around. You never speak of them.”

“True,” he nodded, “and I never speak of men. I never have men around.”

“I thought...you were _hiding_.”

He grinned. “I’m Jaime Lannister. Who would I hide from?”

She grimaced. “Your father?”

His brow furrowed, for just a moment. “Dammit. That could be true.”

She waited. Terrified.

He looked back at her. “I’m not hiding.”

She blinked.

“I don’t have _anyone_ around because I’m not interested in _anyone_.”

Ah. She sighed. He was asexual. That made no sense really, because he was always flirting, but she was not one to comprehend such things.

He stepped closer. “ _No_ , that’s wrong. I am…Brienne, gods! I _am_ interested in someone... _you_. Obviously.”

She blinked. “What?”

He chuckled to himself, glancing up at the clouds. “All this time,” he muttered. He looked at her, forcefully, pointedly, waiting until she stopped blinking so rapidly that she could barely see him.

“I am _not_ gay. I am _interested_ in _you_. I have _been_ interested in you for years, I am not exaggerating that span of time, and I have resigned myself to the idea that you will never think of me that way. It’s fine.” He began light and bemused and ended sad and despondent with a clear intent on hiding that. She knew him. She could see it.

She swallowed. “You...you think _I’m_ gay?”

“What?” He looked stunned again. “Of course not. You’re obviously not gay.”

“How do you know?” she asked, more to buy a little bit of time. For what, she had no idea.

He scoffed. “There’s a certain kind of woman who looks at you, very frequently I might add. You never look back. You never look at anyone.”

She blinked. “I...I look at you.” She could barely hear herself.

“What?” His gaze pierced hers.

She looked down.

“Stop that,” he demanded. “What did you say?”

She met his gaze. It was difficult. “I look at you.”

“Do you?”

She shrugged.

His expression changed. She did not understand this one. He stared. He swallowed and blinked. “Do you believe me?” he asked, and it sounded as if it were loaded with importance. She supposed it was.

She said nothing. She didn’t know _what_ to say. She was fifty steps behind in processing _things_.

His eyes darkened, his pupils dilating. His licked his lip, took his hands out of his pockets. She couldn’t stop herself from following his movements with her eyes. His dark blonde lashes were obscenely long for a man, his smooth bottom lip bitten red and pressed against hers not so long ago. She could feel those lips on hers even then, the sensation beginning to become a memory rather than a dream. It was the same with his fingers and how they felt on her arm, and the bulge in his trousers left behind once those hands were gone from the pockets.

He stepped closer, only two steps from her body, she measured with her eyes. “Do you believe me?” he repeated, lower, darker.

She stared, at the trousers, the hands, the lips, the half-closed eyes peering at her. She said nothing. Her throat was too dry.

He stepped closer, two steps. His body pressed against her, his chest brushing her breasts, his fingers pressing too lightly over her sides until his hands flattened and gripped her boxy waist. His thumbs pushed into her stomach a little. It felt...good. He slid one thigh between her legs.

She sucked in a breath, because all at once with the very blatant feeling of his hard cock against her thigh, she understood that this day was unfolding in reality and not inside her mind, that she was not lost in some figment, that she was indeed standing in the middle of a residential road beside her damaged made-of-tin hybrid as Jaime Lannister, her best friend and the beautiful gay man she was in love with, was grinding himself against her to prove that he was, indeed, _not_ gay at all and was somehow miraculously, magically attracted to her. She exhaled.

She could talk herself out of much, did it every day, but unless Jaime were sexually aroused by crashed cars, mailboxes, or stop signs, there was really nothing else around but her.

His eyes scanned her face. His hands gripped a little harder. He swallowed. “Do you believe me?” lower still, darker still, tinged with possibility.

She nodded.

He kissed her. This time, hard. This time, impatient. This time, she kissed him back despite horrible doubts and fears threatening to steal away the building of this memory. She fought them off, because she would allow herself this, whatever it was. He was kissing her, and his cock was hard on her thigh, and he was not pretending any of it. She could tell. She knew him.

She kissed him clumsily, and he didn’t seem to care. He wrapped his arms around her. She folded hers across his shoulders which drew him flush against her, lips to legs. He opened his mouth slightly, forcing hers open, too, and she let him.

His tongue slid into her mouth. She wanted to laugh, giddy and startled, still sort of halfway wondering whether she had been body-swapped with the sandwich girl, but then she didn’t want to laugh any longer, not at all. He was warm, hot even, temperature-wise. His hand slid up, along her side, over her shoulder blade with fingers tracing the crease between the bone and the muscle, and she shivered against him and opened her mouth wider.

He wrapped his hot palm around her neck and bit at her lips as he switched sides, holding her head with the hand and claiming her mouth hard and deep until she couldn’t breathe anymore. He stopped, or paused, raising his head a bit as he sucked in air, too. His nose brushed hers. He pressed his lips at the corner of her mouth, her uninjured cheek, her jaw. She felt as if she had vertigo, barely in control of her body and dizzy and breathless. His tongue slid against the delicate skin of her neck. 

Then his mouth was back on hers because she’d threaded her fingers into his hair and pulled him up. She surprised herself. It was very unlike her, really. His hands grazed over her back and lower, and lower, and they planted themselves firmly over her...rear area as she worried she wasn’t soft and feminine and had no flesh he could dig his fingers into like she’d read men liked to do. Instead, there was only muscle that did not give against the pressure of his hands, and she worried, until he let out some obscene guttural sound from the back of his throat, grinding into her thigh, hard, and he was everywhere.

She tilted her face back, just enough to see his eyes. She stared, just for a moment. “You want me.” She thought it was supposed to be a question. It _was_ a question, except she knew the answer and shockingly wasn’t all that worried about it. Her thigh knew more about his true desires than her brain, and her thigh couldn’t talk her out of things she didn’t want to be talked out of.

He chuckled, lightly, almost just a huff. “I want you.”

It was hard, _very_ hard, to climb out of her worry and lean forward just a little, the space of a breath, and kiss him all by herself, but she did and she did not regret it.

She found herself being bent backward, awkwardly and if honest, uncomfortably, but he was kissing her until her body didn’t care what it felt as long as he was still touching her. He stopped, hovering over her, whispering, gravelly, “Get in your car. Drive it to that park over there. Get out of your car. Go.”

“Okay,” she mumbled.

He grinned and hauled her the few steps to her door, and she climbed into the driver’s seat in a daze as his hand stayed on her arm. He leaned down and kissed her until the back of her head might have been melting into the seat and she wouldn’t even notice. “Go,” he said.

It was just there, a block down, a nice green park with tall trees and no one there in the early evening hour when people would be feeding macaroni to their children. She drove far too slowly, but her heart was beating so fast that she didn’t trust her eyesight or her judgement. Jaime’s giant black SUV remained where it was, but she did not look into her rear-view mirror to find him or she’d surely crash into the curb. She pulled into the parking lot, in the slot farthest from the street, and waited.

His SUV screamed into the small lot and pulled in next to her, and he was out of his car and over to her car in seconds, pulling open her door. He was there, waiting and breathing heavily, and she climbed out and found herself enveloped by him once more with her car door digging into the flesh of her back.

He pulled back, muttering against her lips. “Do you want to be...normal...or do you...want me to...fuck you...in my car...in a park...and _then_ be normal?”

She thought for a moment, which was a challenge under the onslaught of his mouth, but it didn’t take long. “That one. The latter.”

“Okay,” he said, not even laughing, and he slammed her door shut and picked her up right there, his hands folded over her ass and her legs wrapped right around him.

She’d never been lifted before. Not in her memory. It seemed so easy for Jaime despite her mass, and she felt less huge for once. He carried her to his car and held her against it with one hand and the strength of his thighs as he opened a rear door next to her. He kissed her, and by that point, it basically meant long minutes of his hot tongue and smooth lips and general dizziness. He stepped to the side and brought her with him, setting her in the car where she realized that the seat was folded down, leaving quite a large space in the back.

“Convenient,” she mumbled as he kissed down her neck and sucked on her shoulder.

“Isn’t it? I’m pleased about that.” He yanked off one of her nice work shoes, the loafers with the frivolous little tassels. Then the other. They fell to the ground.

He pulled her previously-crisp dark blue shirt from her trousers, working on the buttons with shaky fingers. “I like you in blue.”

“Oh,” she muttered, pulling his own shirt out and trying to mimic what he did since she had no idea what the steps were. Her only experience had been youthful rutting in the dark which had led to some pretty significant hatred of mankind after. She was lost, but this was Jaime, and her heart seemed to be trying to beat its way out of her chest entirely.

Her shirt came open. She wore no bra, hardly ever did. Cool evening air pebbled her nipples more than they already were, and Jaime stepped back and watched. She wanted to draw the edges of the cloth closed, hide herself, but she didn’t. He kept swallowing and flaring his nostrils, biting his lips.

He looked at her. “I like what I see.”

He kept staring as he finished unbuttoning his shirt and peeled it off, over his strong shoulders and she followed the growing expanse of his bronzed skin. It wasn’t just that he was beautiful, it was that his body made her want things she had never really considered in terms other than distant impossible future events with faceless heroes who didn’t exist. She could feel her own pulse, everywhere, and she was wet and dry in different places, and shaking not from fear.

He stepped close, into the space between her legs and pulled her shirt from her body. He tugged at her trousers, and she let herself look at him as she scooted back, further into the car. All its windows were tinted. Maybe she shouldn’t have so frequently made fun of his expensive, too-frivolous, gas-guzzling, enormous vehicle.

Her trousers came off, and he undid his but didn’t let them slide down. They hovered around his hips indecently. He climbed into the car and used his foot to shut the door behind him, not even looking, crawling on all fours until she was forced to lay back and stare up at him as dim light painted him dark and intimidating.

He bent down on strong arms and kissed her, not touching her anywhere else. Then, “I’m really going to burst, Brienne. If you don’t want to do this. I--”

The whole car just smelled like Jaime, and it was overwhelming her, and too much. She didn’t want to talk. She wrapped her arms over his shoulders and pulled until he collapsed on top of her, and she kissed him. It took him a second to brace himself with shaking arms, then he snuck one under her, around her hips so they were tilted up into him, and he rolled his against her until she made some sort of mortifying noise.

He dragged his lips from her face to her neck, to the untouched skin of her collarbone, down, and took her breast into his mouth and sucked. He lingered there, then the other, and bit the side of her waist, and dipped his tongue into her navel, and she lifted one leg around him and used her thigh to push his ass higher against her until he growled, not like a lion cub, but like a lion.

She pushed his clothes down, he slid her underwear off and probably tore them if the ripping noise were any indication. No matter, she was entirely naked and only cared maybe thirty percent. Twenty-five. Ten.

He cupped her breast with one hand and rolled her nipple between lithe fingers. He claimed her mouth, she wrapped all her limbs around his body, as much as she could.

She felt him, hot and heavy, waiting. Her calves pushed him higher. She couldn’t even make her mouth stay put against his, she had to lean her head back, her back arched and her hips held so close against him by his arm and her legs, and she made no sound as he filled her completely, just a breath, just all the air leaving her lungs until there was a void he poured himself into.

He dropped his face to her neck, to that space near her collarbone where his nose grazed and his lips skated as he thrust into her, slowly. She turned toward him, listening to the strange noises he made, clearly born of pleasure, and she didn’t understand how it could even involve her at all, but it did.

It wasn’t that she felt grateful for his attention. That would be...wrong, somehow. It was that she was stunned. It would take time. She would have trouble, she knew. But he had her there, naked in his car as his body was having a pretty good time joining itself with hers. He lifted his head, eyes glazed over and the muscles of his neck straining. He stared at her. He rested he weight on just one forearm, moving his hand, and she felt his fingers sliding between them, his thumb brushing over her sensitive flesh, and she thought she might scream.

This was...new. This was...she unwrapped her arms from him and flattened her palms against the carpeted ceiling of the car, welcoming the illusion of stability. Except now she could see him better, see his body moving over hers, into hers, see his finger stroking her, his lips parted as he breathed, his eyes boring into hers. She let go. She let her head roll back, dropped her arms, made a noise she had no desire to be embarrassed about.

The flood of this new...thing, made her feel boneless, but still she watched his strong body until he thrust hard enough to make her shake, to make the car shake, and dropped onto her so she could feel his heart against her breasts. She breathed him in, the scent of his skin and their pleasure. She kissed his jaw because it was close and looked good. He raised himself enough to see her, looking dazed, staring as his sly smile began to appear.

He kissed her hard. He whispered against her lips, “Still think I’m gay?”

She laughed. She wasn’t sure what else to do under the circumstances. His naked body was plastered against hers, his cock still inside. She had to laugh.

“No,” she said.

He kissed her. “Hmm. I think you should say you’re not certain.”

“I am certain. I was stupid.”

“Obviously, clearly stupid, but if you weren’t certain, I’d have to prove it to you. Harder.” He swept his tongue over her lip.

“Oh,” she said, her hips rolling against him without knowing why.

He glanced down, eyes turning dark again. “So, are you certain?”

She bit her lip and watched his eyes. “No.”

He nipped at her and chuckled. “You’re going to be very sore tomorrow.”

“Good,” she said, and let him kiss her and kissed him, too.

She was glad she’d made him run into her car. She was, maybe, a little bit glad she’d thought he was gay, because she wasn’t sure she would ever have believed him or even let him be such a large part of her life otherwise. Her day was, perhaps, not _terrible_ at all. It might, in fact, be the best day of her life.

 

 


End file.
